


Breaking

by fancy_a_chat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Season/Series 07, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-21 19:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1561472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancy_a_chat/pseuds/fancy_a_chat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotion? The King of Hell does not feel emotion!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ordinary News

Ordinarily. 

It’s basically how most everything starts out. Meeting a person, even if it’s the person, can start out ordinarily. Striking up conversations that later change your life can start out ordinarily. And an evening, the one that takes the little fragments of soul you have left and shatters it into millions of biting shards, can start out ordinarily.

Hell was being, appropriately enough, hellish. However, other than the annoyance of a few rouge demons and the occasional leviathan wanting to burn the demon-race as a whole, work was overall tolerable that evening. He had instructed his first-hand henchmen to lay off, only bothering him if something needed his attention immediately. Luckily, nothing had called for said attention, so Crowley could continue the laborious task of slaving over a contract he planned on striking with Dick Roman, the head asshole himself. It made Crowley’s skin crawl, the thought of being civil with a leviathan, a creature who was about as reasonable as a pissed-off mother tiger. Regardless, he knew he had to negotiate a deal with the bastard or else his ass and the asses of all the demons in his command would end up as lunch, or worse.

In the midst of his writing the seemingly-interminable paper, a gentle rapping came from behind the door to his office. A small voice, the voice of one of his little messenger demons, called from behind the door, “S-sir? I’m sorry to disturb you, but…we figured you’d want to hear about this.”  
Crowley sighed, took a quick swig of Craig, and flicked his wrist, causing the door to open. Behind the dark wood of the door, was the messenger…Jim? Josh? Crowley shrugged it off and stared down the near-trembling demon in front of him. “Quite busy, if you didn’t already know, so make this quick,” Crowley replied, a bit harsher than necessary, but he didn’t bother addressing it.

The demon took several small steps forward and glanced back at the heavy doors, which slid back closed by the messenger’s doing. Eyes glancing down to the floor, the demon took a breath and, tentatively, began speaking.

Started out ordinarily.

That was until Crowley took his scotch glass and hurled it toward the floor directly in front of the smaller demon.

Crowley would have much rather it been an ordinary, aggravating report. Sam and Dean had screwed up his plans once again or one of his incompetent demon minions had screwed with the wrong leviathan. Hell, he would’ve preferred the death of his favorite hellhound or the falling out of a huge deal. That he could tolerate. He had been tolerating that for what seemed like most of his rather long life. It had become hardly-phasing, ordinary news. This time was different, much to Crowley’s indescribable distress.

After the glass was flung to the ground, the impact so forceful that glass flew up and slashed the messenger in the cheek, Crowley pushed back from his desk and stood. He kept his eyes unmoving on the table in front of him, having a one-sided staring contest with his half empty bottle of Craig. It had been less than a minute since his last swig; how was his mouth so arid? 

Uncharacteristically, the king was completely lost for words. No full sentences, or even fragments came to mind. In their absence, he found himself running a hand over the back of his neck, an annoying habit he picked up from Dean’s angel. His hand was clammy. Could that happen demons? Did they sweat? Crowley tried to distract his mind with this question, but it did nothing to keep away the news he had just heard.  
The messenger remained expressionless and tauntingly still. His eyes remained on the floor, either looking at the shattered remains of the scotch glass or at the dark hard wood flooring of Crowley’s study. Regardless, he refused to glance up at the distraught King of Hell. Several droplets of blood cascaded down his cheek like tears.

Tears.

No, not it a million years, he snapped at himself. Crowley bit down on his bottom lip so hard, he feared he too would begin bleeding. Letting up on his jaw, unfortunately, was proving just as hard as forming coherent phrases. His usually flowing thoughts were now one or two words swimming around in his brain, wrapping themselves around his composure and drowning it until there was hardly anything left but oozing, raw emotion. Emotion? The King of Hell does not feel emotion!

But he did. And he was. In some strange way, Bobby Singer, an old, drunken hunter, had brought out that oozing, raw emotion that Crowley had thought he successfully pushed down, glazed over, made basically nonexistent. Hell, he had spent a large chunk of his both mortal and immortal life emotionless, not able to give a shit less about anyone but himself. So why did he suddenly care so much that a random hunter was-

His eyes sealed shut, and he became perfectly aware that a tear was currently racing down his rapidly paling cheek. Crowley opened his eyes and rounded on the messenger, who took a single step back. “How long ago?” the king asked, voice cracking like some sort of prepubescent boy.

The weaker demon stared down at his feet for some time before hesitantly answering. “A-about three days ago, sir,” he answered softly.

Three days? His Bobby had been dead three days and this was the first time he’d heard anything about it? “Why wasn’t I informed?” Crowley asked, his voice recomposing and dangerously low, his head dipped aggressively.

As Crowley stepped closer to him, the messenger began stuttering excuses incoherently. Or maybe they were coherent reasons but the King of Hell was in no state to decipher it. “You know,” Crowley interrupted, backing the demon into his closed office door, “I want any information pertaining to Bobby Singer within seconds of its occurrence. Do you think I position a few demons around him at all times for my health!” The messenger looked close to shitting himself now, but Crowley was too enraged and all around emotionally frazzled to frankly care. There was this sharp stinging in his chest that felt similarly to the time a hunter had forced him to ingest holy water. The only difference was that this was not going away. 

Before he could even think about what he was doing, he had the messenger’s neck in his right hand and had lifted him a half a foot above his head, the demon writhing like an insect in his grasp. It wouldn’t kill the demon, but it made Crowley feel better to see him squirm against the door in discomfort, basically providing the king with a visual of what was going on inside his mangled brain.

“Before I skin you and bathe your inner mechanisms in holy water, I want you to answer my question. Where is Robert Singer’s soul now?” he inquired in a fierce whisper. 

“I-it wanders. A r-reaper tried t-to pick him up…he w-wouldn’t go,” the demon choked out, gasping every other syllable.

There was a snap. 

Crowley couldn’t tell if it had been the demon’s neck or if it was the sound of the last remains of a soul the king possessed breaking into pieces. Most likely both. The messenger’s head had thrashed harshly to the right, and blood was splattered all across the room. Upon releasing his hold on the demon’s neck, the body crumbled to the floor at his feet, the rip in his neck gushing blood all over the floor. If he had thought his head was buzzing earlier, he knew nothing. The pain in his chest had now increased to full-fledged blade-through-the-heart agony. The thought of Bobby’s soul wandering aimlessly around the earth, not even in a state where he could make contact, was enough to tear at Crowley’s chest like a hellhound.

The smell of blood, which usually had no affect on him, was now congesting his nose, making it difficult to inhale. Utilizing his mouth to get the oxygen he didn’t necessarily need, Crowley’s breath quickened until he was panting. He whirled around and tried to focus his eyes upon the contents of his tabletop. Since when had this scotch bottle begun swaying? The king lunged forward, clammy fingers wrapping around the bottle’s neck. Tilting it sloppily back, he desperately swigged down the liquor, every ounce burning his throat more than usual. When it was finally drained, he lowered his head and allowed the bottle to slip from his alcohol-and-blood-drenched fingers. It shattered to the floor along with the first cup, making his study just as jagged and bloody as Crowley felt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, but you know…school

Finally.

Another messenger, one that had entered with such hesitation that he was basically trembling, had informed Crowley that Bobby’s soul has been set free, that the item his soul was desperately clinging to, like how Crowley had been clinging to his sanity over the past few months, had been burned. A wave of relief swept over the demon, who felt calm and steady for the first time in what seemed like forever. “Finally,” was all he could say before he politely dismissed the petrified demon and made his way over to his liquor cabinet. Technical term. It was actually closer to a wardrobe used for alcohol. From the bottom shelf, he pulled out his oldest and best bottle of scotch and placed it on his newly cleaned desk in his newly cleaned office. Crowley shuddered at the thought of how his office had looked for about a month.

A month after hearing that Bobby Singer had a bullet through his chest, Crowley had quarantined himself in his office, barricading the door with varying sigils and even a few chairs to prevent anyone from seeing him in this state. He would occasionally slip letters or talk through the door to one his higher-up demons to make sure hell was running smoothly. The rest of the day was spent either drinking, crying, watching the occasional documentary, or all three.

It took two weeks for him to even look at that loathsome document he had to give Dick Roman. Much to his surprise, it did distract him from thinking about Bobby’s…passing. One day, he actually decided to change into a suit. He was quickly struck with the sudden realization that this could be the suit he had kissed Bobby in. After throwing another scotch glass and beating himself up over the fact that he didn’t remember which suit he had worn, Crowley changed back into his robe and sweatpants that no one was allowed to see him in.

About a week after that, Crowley had finished the document for Dick and realized that he couldn’t very well trust a demon to make quite possibly the largest deal in the history of hell and earth. So, begrudgingly, Crowley began cleaning up. He started with his office, sweeping away all the shards of glass and zapping away the puddles of varying blood types on his floor. The empty liquor bottles that the demon didn’t even remember opening were disposed off and any tissue that held one drop of tear was burned in the fireplace behind his desk. Next came himself, which required a bit more effort. A bottle of cologne and a brand-new suit later, he was prepared to unlock his office door and face hell.

Several months later, things were improving drastically. On occasion, Crowley would get a wave of emotion that would send him into an evening of drinking and manic depression. However, those days became more and more fleeting as the weeks passed.

Now, however, he felt truly at ease. The day that he had, quite frankly, feared would never come had finally arrived.

As the King of Hell poured two glasses of scotch, he heard what sounded like a crackling flame on the other side of his desk. He smiled to himself as the sound transitioned into slightly ragged breathing. “Robert Singer,” Crowley said, more to himself, “So nice of you to finally join me.”

Bracing himself, Crowley spun on his heels to face the hunter. He looked old, older than he had last seen him, and pale. Death could do that to a person. However, other than that, he appeared exactly the same: plaid shirt, beaten-up baseball cap, even that expression of perplexed annoyance the older man wore so well. Every ounce of willpower in the demon’s body had to be used to keep him from leaping over the desk and giving him a suffocating hug. Demons don’t hug, moron, he snapped at himself. So Crowley cleared his throat and slid the second glass across his desk toward Bobby. The hunter, still looking utterly baffled, glanced at the drink. He then looked back up at Crowley. “Where the hell am I?”

“Exactly,” Crowley answered, unable to repress what had to be the stupidest grin he had ever worn. God, how he had missed their banter, this back and forth that anyone else he talked to refused to participate in. Whether they feared him or hated him too much varied, but the responses he received were general curt.

At his answer, Bobby narrowed his eyes and took a half a step forward. “What…are you implying what I think ya are?”

This time, Crowley’s smile was more cocky than content. “Welcome to my own little inferno, love,” he said, picking up the scotch glass and handing it too Bobby, who took it reluctantly.

Bobby glared at the liquid as if it were poison. Crowley chuckled at the thought. Like poison could even affect him now. “So…I guess I wasn’t good enough for holy escalator?” Bobby asked, casually, taking a sip of the liquor. The small eyebrow raise indicated that the hunter had never had such an expensive type of whisky.

At this comment, a wave of guilt swept over the demon. So much so that he was forced to look down and swirl around the liquid in his own glass. “Yes, well, that’s when things get tricky…” 

Bobby’s eyes immediately shot up. “What the hell do you mean, ‘things get tricky?’” Bobby asked sharply, doing his little English accent he often put on when imitating Crowley. It was probably a bad time to point how cute it was, the demon considered.

Crowley exhaled and met Bobby’s eyes. “You…were on the little cloud up to heaven, but…I sort of…stopped you midway. Figured the highway to hell fit you better anyway,” the demon said, trying to keep the mood incredibly light.

That failed miserably.

Next thing Crowley knew, the hunter had leapt over the desk, something that man could’ve only done as a spirit, and had knocked Crowley right on his ass. He took a moment to damn the strength ghosts could have in hell before a fist came across his cheek. Only one gasp managed to escape him before the hunter clocked him again. “You demonic bastard!” Bobby growled, showing no sign of getting off Crowley, who he was basically straddling. 

The king of hell couldn’t suppress his laughter. “You know, when I pictured you sitting on my stomach, I had assumed we would be something much more pleasurable than you beating the living shit out of me,” the demon chuckled, a trickle of blood dripping from his mouth.

At this, the hunter stopped, hands on either side of Crowley’s head. His eyes sealed shut, his face more enraged than the demon could recall ever seeing. After several seconds, in which Crowley began considering whether to ask the hunter if he was alright, Bobby whispered, “This is my immortal soul we’re talking about and you think it’s an appropriate time to make a sexual reference?”

Crowley shrugged. “Figured now was as good a time as any,” he answered, smirking. Just as the hunter lifted his arm to take another crack at him, Crowley lifted his hands defensively, “Alright, alright, calm down. If you get off of me, I’d be happy to explain.”

It took a few more moments before Bobby lowered his fist and rolled off the demon. They both stood up, Crowley brushing off his suit, Bobby trying his hardest not to knock the other man back on his ass. “Okay. You want the truth as to why I dragged you down to my level?”

“No, I want you to lie. Of course I want the freaking truth, idgit!” Bobby snapped.

Crowley pointed at him, another involuntary smile on his lips. “That’s it! Right there, I’ve missed that. I’ve missed you.”

It only registered what he had said when the hunter’s enraged expression transitioned into one of utter perplexity. Well, shit, Crowley thought, way to be forward, “No, I mean…I miss the little back and forth we always go into.” No better. “It’s just…I don’t have anyone I can just casually talk to.” How fucking old are you? Crowley exhaled, giving in the fact that he sounded like a love-struck teenager. “So…you’re here…because I…care about you, you old redneck.”

Bobby continued standing there like a statue, face still bearing a look of confusion and slight discontent. In the silence, Crowley rocked on his feet and bit his lip. “Are you planning on saying something or are you just going to continue making me feel like a moron?” Crowley snapped, not bothering to hide how insulted he felt. He, the king of hell, had just opened up to him, something he seldom did. Ever. And what does that drunken hunter do? Remain completely still!

After a moment, Bobby opened his mouth. “You…missed me?” he asked, soundly half way between disbelieving and humored.

At this, Crowley simply stared at him, incredulously. That was probably the closest he’d gotten to “opening up” in his life, and now Bobby’s response was to dumbly repeat what he had just said? The demon was suddenly flooded with guilt and disgust for himself. What did he see in this man? How had this drunk managed to fuck him up so badly for months?

For a good ten seconds, Crowley honestly thought he was going to rip into the man’s soul right there. Tear at it and torture it more fiercely than he had to any other damned son of a bitch. However, something within him subsided that impulse, replacing it with a new one. The demon found himself striding toward a now petrified looking Bobby. Before either one of them could stop it, Crowley threw his arms around the hunter’s waist and hugged him tightly, head burrowing into the crook of Bobby’s neck. He felt the hunter gasp at the sudden contact, but he didn’t frankly care. He continued to grip Bobby, taking in that familiar smell of whisky and old pages. “Yes,” he mumbled weakly into Bobby’s shoulder, “I missed you. God, I missed you so much, you moron…”

It took a while for Bobby to register what was happening. When it finally did, he tentatively wrapped his arms around the demon, like a trainer tending to a wild animal. At this, Crowley exhaled any tension he was holding onto and melted into the other man’s embrace. Not knowing what exactly to do with an emotionally instable demon, Bobby comforted him as he would anyone else; he ran a gentle hand up and down his back, and whispered, “I know. I missed you, too.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshit-artist, darling,” Crowley murmured, knowing perfectly well that Bobby was probably glad at the lack of communication between them.

Much to the demon’s surprise, however, Bobby hugged Crowley tighter. After several moments, Bobby murmured softly, “I’m not bullshitting you…you may get annoying as all hell, but…yeah, I missed you.”

Crowley felt a small tug at his lips and, before he could stop himself, he was smiling weakly into Bobby’s shoulder.


End file.
